3:24 a.m. —On Private Heights
“You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?”
She had been under a strain, and a rather terrible one. There wasn’t any doubt about that. It was emotion, after all, that brought age, not years, thought Lieutenant Valcour as he glanced at the dark rings so clearly visible beneath her tragic eyes.
Roberts hadn’t looked toward the bed—yet—but then he hadn’t really expected that she would. Perhaps she wouldn’t look for some time, but eventually she would lose some portion of that really splendid self-control that she was exerting and then, instead of the expanse of white sheet she had been expecting, there would be Endicott’s face. …
“I wonder if you could tell me, Miss Roberts, the number of shots that were fired during the shooting.”
“I’m sure I couldn’t.”
She was pointedly on guard, her eyes held at a level that included his cravat but went no higher.
“The question isn’t as silly a one as it seems,” Lieutenant Valcour said. “I don’t suggest for a minute that you counted the shots as they were being fired, actually, but it’s quite within possibility that your subconscious mind really did that very thing, and that on consciously thinking about it the number might come to you. It’s something along the principle of visualizing sound.”
“I’m sorry. I’m sure that no amount of thinking about it would clear the rather terrible confusion of that moment.”